


Due Manifesto

by nintendohime



Series: Cross Drabbles [1]
Category: Final Fantasy IV: The After Years, Harvest Moon: The Tale of Two Towns
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Crack, Angst, Crack Crossover, Crack Relationships, Crack and Angst, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nintendohime/pseuds/nintendohime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming to grips with the brittle balance between power and acknowledgement of such was never one of Palom's finer points, especially when it concerned his twin sister. His meticulous temper and succession in black magic made sure of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Due Manifesto

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely crossover/alternate crack/fluff/drama/angst that I wrote mostly out of boredom -- nothing serious (no fangirl attack/logic reasonings plzkthx). I don't know how the couple in question would have met (if not by some crazy plot device with the Devil's Road/Feymarch or Harvest Goddess or pet lamia/cat, whatever). Please don't judge and shoot, thanks.

It was with a quiet sigh that the Mysidian shifted his position, languidly scratching his lower back along the wall in result. A booted limb hooked, sole resting with a profound plant against the planking as blue-robed arms crossed at his chest, a scowl marring a plain visage that often held an opinion of indifference, let alone his thoughts on current matters.

“Where is that purple heathen?”

Palom's dark brown eyes – heated as the intermixed brushy colors of vermillion and saffron in the darkening sky – shifted towards the main rocky path, scrutinizing the few forks that branched into different sub-sects of the mythical town. If Cam had approached The Wild Mysidian Pub, he would have definitely come from the area leading from the Devil's Road; an easy spot for the Black Mage to see, given that living in Mysidia for twenty-three years had opened him to every path and trail in navigating the small providence of the plateau. It was unlike the florist to be late, given his punctuality in prior engagements.

_Perhaps he is one step ahead of me and has already arrived inside._ The brunet lazily pushed himself off the grey stucco wall, turning to stare at the ornate oak door that sealed the establishment from outwardly whims. With the days of the post-Crystal War passed – the memory of the Maenad still fresh in everyone's minds, however – the popular drinking spot of the Mysidian community hadn't seen much action, save for a few grumpy old veterans and their tales of battle scars and prejudice of the Baronians from the first war; such wasn't a problem for Palom – being one of two Elders of Mysidia – but to an outsider like the florist, a propositioned attack could be forthcoming.

A quiet huff escaped from the mage's lips with another thought: _Not that I care, of course. My sister's idiot boyfriend gets maimed by some old apartheid codgers, I have one less idiot to worry about._

The thought of a certain pink-haired White Mage woman smacking him upside the head before turning him into a lilliputian replica made the mage groan inwardly and set off towards the door with a displeased sigh. Porom would likely be upset if anything had happened to Cam while in his presence and ready to blame him first, even if a Fira to the face or toad to the body wasn't enacted by himself.

“Palom?”

The sound of the quiet voice – male in tone – caused the destructive spellcaster to halt midstep, the long brunet braid trailing down his back whipping about his hip with an abrupt turn upon one heel. The sandy-haired individual stood there with a cross of arms at his chest, indifferent emeralds boring into angered mocha, all of which piqued the Mysidian and made him nearly regret calling the meeting in the first place.

“About time you've arrived,” the Black Mage replied in a quiet tone, relaxing his visage into mirroring the indifferent look the violet florist wore. If Palom could keep his cool over the proposition and not involve half of Mysidia within family affairs, things would be okay; that included not chewing his ass out for whatever excuse he might have to not cross his sight first and sneak up on him instead. “For a moment, I thought you weren't going to show up.”

“Of course I would show up.” Cam shook his head as the Mysidian opened the door, offering him first entry. Luckily for both men, the establishment was quiet; barely a sound poured out from the tavern, save for a myriad of different conversation from all directions and wizard alike. Speech dropped into frothy mugs of mead and ale, however, as the florist entered, eyes and chatter resuming as the Black Mage followed up in his advance afterward. The sight was enough to make the florist – untrained and unable to wield magic at all; an easy kill for the Mysidians who had been practicing their whole lives – turn vest-tail and run. Such would give Palom the satisfaction, and he would be damned to let that happen. “What made you think I wouldn't?”

“Small things of little importance.” The Black Mage waved a hand as though to dismiss the thought, procuring a questioning look from the violet-clad man. He then lead them to the bar, giving a snarling glare to a bearded mage who had merely opened his mouth to bid the two hello. “Order what you'd like, so long as it's not more than five-hundred Gil. I'm not made of it, you know.”

Cam watched as Palom leaned against the bar, resting with an elbow propped up on the ledge. The Elder's look expressed boredom – perhaps a bit of anger as he gestured towards the barrels of mead and aged malt crafts, a solitary finger pointing towards the shelves of finer wines, colorful in pristine glass. Did the mage's plan include stringing him along on this trip, making him look like an idiot because he didn't know the name of a particular beverage? It was a good play if he were going in that roundabout direction – one the florist would give in to.

At the tender age of twenty-three years, maturity hadn't yet bench-marked the practicing sage; a minute and a quarter-second passed quietly between them, leading to a thin thread of patience. “Well, if you're not going to go first...” Palom shook his head as he trailed off, turning to the waiting barkeep with a sigh. “Mug of short mead if you don't mind, Walters. Get my companion here a pint of rhodomel,” he added, jabbing a finger towards the florist. “He's into the sweet, flower-based crap.

“I bet it barely tastes sweet at all, of course.” The Black Mage turned his gaze back to Cam as the barkeep shuffled off, the indifferent look twisting into an amused grin at the shock on the sandy-haired man's face. “Just be glad I didn't order you a sack or bochet. Sack is heavily tinctured with honey, and bochet is said to have traces of chocolate. I bet you wouldn't be fond of the sweetness of acerglyn by any means, either.”

“That's kind of you.” The florist attempted a smile towards the magician, whom chortled in response, likely at the lopsided look given. Deep down, it was a miracle that Palom hadn't ordered him something that would likely cause him to vomit. It didn't readily take away his heightened suspicion of the brunet, of course: Porom had often regarded her twin brother as an immature brat growing up and an even bigger one as an adult. What could the Mysidian have up his sleeve that didn't seem like a genuine gesture?

“Yeah, I know.” The Elder turned back towards the keep as Walters approached with two silver tankards. “About time, old dude. One short, one rhodomel, eh? That's probably close to 125 Gil, right?”

Cam watched the transaction of currency with a mute gaze, suppressing the urge to shake his head at the mage's short tone. How one, supposedly so humble in knowing he had a gift he wished to share with the world, could take on a blunt, rude demeanor with their general public almost frightened him. Like leaves on the trees and flowers in the wind, similar patterns could be seen between the two, as oft noted by Porom and Minwu. When he thought about it, the only thing separating the two men were circumstance and a shot at determination.

“Go on, Cam; take it. It's not gonna bite ya.” Palom raised a brow, rolling his eyes afterward as the florist transitioned back from his thoughts to the subtle atmosphere of the pub. To say that the thought of desperately wanting to shank him with a dagger and be done with it didn't cross his mind would be a blatant lie. “I might be powerful, but I can't transfigure tankards into dragons or frogs, ya'nno.”

Waiting for the purple-garbed man to grab – albeit in a slow daunt – up the pewter mug in his grasp, the blue-robed mage took off for a desolate corner of the pub. A few of the patrons dared look up, regarding the elder with reverence as one might a king. Palom's quick temper and broiling irritation with things certainly played the role of a spoiled monarch well at times; just the fact alone that something he might not like could cause an instant Firaga to one's hair or a spell involving the poor soul's who dared make him upset body take shape of a pig was enough to ignite fear in anyone.

“You're probably wondering why I called an impromptu meeting with you.” The Mysidian took a seat on the high-backed chair, folding his hands over one another atop the cherry-wood table as the florist followed suit. Dark brown eyes gazed about the bar a moment, inwardly pleased to see that Walters polishing glasses, the tavern maids gossiping with one another in a far corner, and other patrons minding their business over their drinks, deep into personal or interval conversation. “Though I think you probably know why.”

Cam raised a brow as Palom's gaze rested solemnly within his own. By his relaxed pose and indifferent look, the Mysidian didn't seem upset. As the florist had come to understand and by Porom's warning alone, deadpanning was one of Palom's major attributes: whether he was stifling happiness or secretly conspiring to get him blotto drunk and taking him back behind the tavern to finish him off was a horrible anticipation. He was certain that, no matter how he approached the mage's statement, the allegation wouldn't be cheerfully dealt with at all. “Is it about my question to you earlier in the week?”

“You're – as Porom would say – rather astute.” Palom braided his fingers, bringing the sides of his hands to his lips, glad for the moment that the action had taken place; how the florist conspicuously tilted his head to the side with darting green (likely checking to see if the mage were quietly chanting a spell) amused him greatly. Instilling fear in Cam's heart where important male figures such as Minwu, Edward, or Cecil couldn't was something he was unabashedly proud of. “Nonetheless, you're correct.”

Cam inwardly counted the bladed minutes of painstaking silence that floated between them: two full passed as Palom regarded him with little flair, another for the long sip of mead and thwack of tankard to table, and perhaps twenty-six seconds for the mage to say something else:

“I see that you propose marriage with a blue-colored feather?”

The florist's mouth dropped, though he was quick to close it. The Black Mage's brows were piqued with interest, rough hands resting underneath his chin with a serene look. Cam supposed if he were to cast some sort of harmful magic upon him, the time would be perfect. “You do, yes,” Cam replied, keeping his tone quiet, reserved. “A tale of legend once revealed that an exotic bird – a pet and loyal servant of the Harvest Goddess – gave a young man one of his feathers as a reward for freeing it from certain death; the down itself was said to have great beauty as an ideal gift in poorer times, making it perfect for one of a lesser village to use when a dowry wasn't in place. Centuries and words later, the tradition is still passed down, although one no longer journeys to the goddess' pond to obtain one.” The florist paused a moment; Palom's serene look was steadily waning, prompting him to quickly add on: “Shops stock them now and I highly doubt they are made from an actual bird's down.”

Another moment's pause drifted by the two, accompanied by another gulp of the short mead brew from the Black Mage. “Why don't you just buy her a ring? Adamant is easily obtainable, as is crystal, you know. You needn't worry about the cost, of course. Why should you, with the stands you run and wealth back home?”

“Porom isn't one to look for aesthetics, you know,” Cam replied, his tone decidedly sharp. He realized his mistake a moment later as Palom's brows rose, clearly shocked that the florist had decided to speak to him in such a manner. “I'm sure every woman dreams of diamond gold rings and beautiful jewelry to adorn their fingers, necks, wrists, and hair,” he added, dropping his voice in edgeless plight. Such a thing did little to assuage the mage's irritated look, however. “Porom, on the other hand --”

“Are you saying that diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies aren't befitting for her?” Palom eyed the florist, the normal gruff in his voice accompanied by an eerie quiet. “Porom – not only as a Mysidian Elder and my little sister – deserves the best. A high-ranked spellcaster worthy only of the greatest riches deserves nothing short of spectacular, you know.”

“I'm not saying that!” The florist quickly stood from his seat, the seething eyes of the tavern's occupants boring into him. To stand up to a brash, immature mage like Palom might have been an interesting feat if it weren't tinged with the harsh realities of stupidly fatal. Cam seemed to care little, however, his hands finding a plant to the table. “Maybe, _just maybe_ , if you knew your twin sister as an actual person instead of an accessory to your succession as a mage and cared for her instead of throwing her name openly when contingent and convenient for your personal gain --”

“ _ENOUGH!_ ” Palom's chair slid back and frame forward, hands gripping like death into the florist's shirt to yank him close, all in one fell, swift motion. Had the two bothered to look around instead of glaring heatedly at one another, a few people had begun to depart, while others merely chanted a protection spell or adorned amulets to null out effects. “How dare you – you're a mere florist, nothing short of a damn, cowardly bard!” The mage reared his left hand, bathed in a glowing light of lime, back, the sounds of a spell ready at his lips. “ _How dare you make judgments against me?_ ”

“Because you're wrong, Palom, and you hate to hear that you are.”

Palom shifted his hand forward, ready to bring the destruction of Thundara crashing down upon the other man with a quick crack. Emerald bore angrily into aggravated mocha, a twinge of memory coursing through the depths of his mind with –-

_“...Always so high and mighty. The title of sage is something that is granted, not given! It cannot be obtained!”_

_“You'll never achieve your goals if you keep running from them, you know!”_

_“You might care now, but will you later?”_

_“You shouldn't push her aside, nor cast her away, just because it's convenient for you.”_

_“You don't care, do you?_

_“You just don't care...”_

\-- _Porom_. A White Mage's ideal shifted in his mind – the sassy know-it-all physique of an adorable five-year-old girl, morphing eloquently into a brunette teenager with different ideals, and standing regally as a rose-headed woman in a separate entity from him whirled cycles about him as one might a scythe. Minwu's actions and form – aging rapidly as the years progressed – left a bitter taste in his dry mouth.

Both were correct...

... Weren't they?

Palom released the florist, the aura of his spell dissipating with simple dismissal. If Porom, Minwu, and Leonora were brave enough to say so, hearing it from the one his sister adored shouldn't have been anything but a sharp kick in the face. The only reason it stung worse than a Zuu's claws to his backside was simple: Porom was independent; she didn't rely on him anymore for comfort as she had done when she was three and scared of leaving their parents for sanctuary under Minwu. Pushing her away after the first Crystal War and delving into Tellah's legacy seemed the only thing to do when she had gone on to perfect her white magic and left him far behind.

If the regrets weren't there, then why did it hurt so much?

Of course, the Mysidian would be damned if Cam found out, no matter how much he seemed to already know.

A moment of stares and silence slipped past the two once more as Palom reclaimed his seat with a quick scoot, inviting the other man to join him again – which he did so after a lengthy stare. Surprisingly enough for the two, the mage had no words of retaliation; he merely took another gulp of his ale, followed by a second swallow to finish off the tankard's worth.

“If you need a ring, you can ask me, you know. I'll be happy to help you convert your currency into Gil. I'm sure the armorer here or a jeweler from Agart, Kaipo, or Mythril Village would take it as is, too.”

The florist opened his mouth as a finger gestured upwards. Whatever he might have said was cut off with an incredulous look, his eyes widening. “Does that mean, Palom --”

“Blue feathers might be an acceptable form of marriage where you're from, but they won't fly in front of a bishop – no pun intended, of course – if you're to have the ceremony in Baron or Damcyan, which is what either Cecil and Rosa, or the Epopts or Edward, will insist, depending on whom finds out first. You'll need a ring and so will she.”

Palom watched Cam – whose face was caught between bewildered and bemused – from the corner of his eye, keeping his face as plain as possible. He was still upset at the fact that the purple floral artist had dared to step up to him, but, at the same time, was rather impressed. Perhaps he didn't give him enough credit, if any at all, which was a perfect excuse to brush the apropos gesture clean off his visage:

“Don't think I _don't_ know the secret you both are hiding, by the way. It's one of my stipulations for agreeing at all.”

Mocha met emerald once more, gazes steeling but with mutual understanding of one another. It was appealing, almost satisfactory (as though the florist had eaten the chocobo that cried murder) in the way Cam took his tankard and meekly drank from it with humbled regards, hushed for the moment in a multitude of thought and fright.

With the comfort of pride returning to him in open arms, Palom raised his hand, gesturing for a bar wench to take his tankard for another fill of mead. Another glass to see the two home and drown his sorrows further seemed nothing short of appropriate.


End file.
